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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30027279">How Gravity Works</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celestialfeathers/pseuds/Celestialfeathers'>Celestialfeathers</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Umbrella Academy (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - No Apocalypse (Umbrella Academy), Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Luther Hargreeves Gets A Hug, Luther Hargreeves Has Issues, Number Five | The Boy Gets A Hug, Number Five | The Boy Has Issues, Poetry, Sibling Bonding</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:33:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,104</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30027279</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celestialfeathers/pseuds/Celestialfeathers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like it's some life-ending secret, really. Not even a secret at all, just something private, something he hasn't gone out of his way to share. It's not harmful, just a few thoughts scribbled down onto extra-sturdy paper with a clumsy grip that leads to nearly unintelligible handwriting. It was one of the few comforts he'd had on the moon, so if Luther kept his logbook and still likes to maybe sometimes write a little—a lot—of poetry, then that's his business and his business alone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>Luther lost his poetry. Five found it. These two things happen in the same year, and forty-five years apart.</i><br/></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Number Five | The Boy &amp; Luther Hargreeves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>81</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>How Gravity Works</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Luther can't find his logbook anywhere. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's not in any of the places it usually is, tucked into an inner pocket in his coat or slid surreptitiously into the drawer of his desk. It's not even with the other logbooks, the ones that languish besides rock samples in the back of his closet, packed in neatly beneath his too-small blazers and old knee-high socks. Nobody has asked about where the samples had gone after he'd found them again, unsealed and unused, and he hasn't told anyone, either. Only Mom knows where they are, having gone through an organizational kick after the world didn't quite manage to end. When Luther had stumbled across her cleaning out his closet, she had only patted his cheek with a smile and an offer to find a better storage place if he ever wanted it. He'd said no, and even now he doesn't know exactly why, since he actually uses that closet and has to see the samples and the blazers and his body in the mirror every time he goes to change, and sometimes it makes him not want to get out of bed to have to see them lying there like the inanimate objects they are, to see his body distorted in his reflection, like they had never meant anything more than that, like they had always deserved to be slowly accumulating dust in a forgotten corner somewhere, useless. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Those thoughts do not start off a productive day, so Luther has been mentally smacking them down when they pop up, like a psychologically avoidant version of whack-a-mole.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In any case, the specific logbook he's looking for hasn't been put in with the others, so Mom probably wasn't the one to find it. That means it's either lost somewhere around the house, likely fallen out of his pocket when he set his coat down—a rare occasion, but getting more frequent—or one of his siblings has it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The second option is vaguely terrifying. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's not like it's some life-ending secret, really. Not even a secret at all, just something private, something he hasn't gone out of his way to share. It's not harmful, just a few thoughts scribbled down onto extra-sturdy paper with a clumsy grip that leads to nearly unintelligible handwriting. It was one of the few comforts he'd had on the moon, so if Luther kept his logbook and still likes to maybe sometimes write a little—a lot—of poetry, then that's his business and his business alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Diego and Klaus will never let him live it down if they read it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's that thought, the image of the two of them flicking through the pages together, eyes widening as they realize what he's written, that </span>
  <em>
    <span>Luther</span>
  </em>
  <span> likes to write </span>
  <em>
    <span>poetry</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that sends him rushing—casually, coolly, unsuspiciously—downstairs to look for it. The staircase squeaks under his weight with every step like it's personally offended, something he's unfortunately used to. When he's feeling particularly vindictive, which nowadays only happens when he gets into a fight with one of his siblings, he steps extra hard to intimidate the stairs into silence through the force of sheer annoyance, and also super strength. The stairs do not respond well to passive aggression, so this doesn't tend to work out for him. He's tempted to do it again now, but that would not be very casual and cool and unsuspicious of him, so he squashes the urge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The logbook isn't not in the living room, tucked into the cracks between the couch cushions or slipped among the recently-added decorative coffee table books. That had been the most likely place besides his bedroom, since game night had been last night and Luther may have gotten a tad...excited during the surprisingly intense game of Uno. He had almost won—should have, really, if they hadn't all teamed up on him to keep skipping his turn, and if Five hadn't started cheating and switching cards at some point, which Luther didn't have evidence of but knew in his bones—and he definitely hadn't started sulking afterwards about losing a game that hadn't technically been named after him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He'd taken his coat off during the excitement and hung it over the back of the couch, the same couch that might have gotten tipped over backwards with Klaus and Vanya still sitting on it when Luther had stood up too fast upon Five's stolen victory. Klaus and Vanya were fine, of course, having withstood worse in their lives than a slight cushioned fall. They'd thought it was funny more than anything else, which was probably good even if it made Luther want to curl up in a ball and go hide back on the moon, which had the wonderful benefit of being as far away as humanly possible. The distance hadn't seemed like a good thing back then—he had been so lonely, up there—but now that people are actually around, he's beginning to understand a new appeal to it. At least on the moon when he'd knocked something over, it had a) fallen down very slowly, b) never had to respond to the awkward apologies he'd tried to give it, and c) never been a person that would remember it and bring it up later. Nobody has yet, but it hasn't even been a full day, and Klaus's smile had been too full of mocking delight for it not to come up again soon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In any case, the logbook had not been lost during the commotion. It's almost a relief that it's not there, since that would have been three embarrassing losses at one time, which really would have been too much. Unless one of the others had found it, of course, and Luther's mind decides to add a light shower of Uno cards to the mental image of his brothers laughing at him. This doesn't help, for some reason, so he moves on quickly, shaking his head as if that will help somehow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kitchen is the next suspect, but his strides become less purposeful as he approaches. It isn't that the kitchen itself is intimidating, or that Luther is irrationally afraid of refrigerators or something—he isn't, though sometimes when he reaches inside there's something about the slow chill of it, the sterile and artificial material, the automatic count of how many days of food there are that's leftover from the times Dad had been delayed in sending rations, that reminds him of the space station—but because the kitchen almost always has someone in it. Ever since they've all been making an effort to be a good and functional family, even the siblings that don't live in the house have started to stop by more and more, and stopping by almost inevitably means grabbing a snack from the kitchen. Whether that's because food is the great unifier of humanity or because Mom makes cookies every other afternoon, Luther isn't sure. It's usually a good thing that there are people around, but right now he'd prefer to be as inconspicuous as possible, and the kitchen is not large enough to allow for that. No room is, really, but especially not this one. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Luther shuffles to the doorframe, then, he looks around cautiously. Nobody is sitting at the table or lurking on the other side of the kitchen, and he relaxes slightly and feels cautiously optimistic. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If the logbook is here, it would have fallen out as he had sat down. Getting on hands and knees feels ridiculous, especially as his oversized torso keeps getting in the way of it, but he manages to get all the way down to check under the table. Only as he finally gets down to floor level, ready to search the chairs and the linoleum and the various under-spaces it could have crept into, does he hear Five's voice from somewhere above him, causing Luther to slam his head into the underside of the table with a sharp cracking sound.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Luther, what the hell are you doing?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course the kitchen hadn't really been empty. Of course it hadn't. Luther gingerly extracts himself and stands back to his full height, running a hand over where he had smacked into the table. No cracks, good. It would have been a shame to replace it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Five isn't sitting at the table, and nor is he hovering in by a doorframe as he had expected. No, he's perched on top of the refrigerator, a chipped mug of coffee in his hand and some scattered papers around his crossed legs. Luther hadn't thought to really check there, and since he hadn't heard the tell-tale air-displacement noise of Five's jumps, and his dark blazer and shorts and socks blend in with the shadows even now that Luther knows he's there, it's most likely that he had seen the whole thing and had only waited to announce his presence at the worst possible time. The smug, amused look Five hides behind a sip of coffee does nothing to dissuade this idea. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What am I—? What are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> doing?" Luther asks. "And why are you doing it on top of the fridge?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm having lunch." Five makes a vague, and vaguely condescending, gesture with his coffee. Luther makes a conscious choice not to be irritated; Five is just like that, and it's only mostly his fault.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't think coffee counts as lunch." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Agree to disagree." The papers covered in small, neat symbols crinkle under Five as he shifts his weight, getting in a more comfortable position. "And now that I've told you what I'm doing—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You didn't say why you were on top of the fridge."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"—you have to tell me why you've decided to stick your head under random furniture. I will say, if you're playing hide-and-seek with Klaus, that's not really an ideal hiding spot for you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm not playing hide-and-seek with Klaus." A thought occurs to him. "Do you two—?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Five's patented smug look is back, and stronger than before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, I don't know if I would classify what we do as a formal game; it's more like Klaus tries to get me to join in on one of his bizarre ideas of fun, and I leave the room once it's clear that I have no interest in it. He, for some reason, still thinks he can catch me and convince me after that, and I, of course, have to prove him wrong." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In Luther's humble opinion, it's probably a very good thing that Five finds many of Klaus' ideas boring or repulsive. The two of them are an unpredictable, chaotic team who could certainly end the world if one of them wasn't so strictly opposed, and despite what Five says, he does join Klaus for little adventures fairly often. The most tame had been when Five had tagged along to Klaus' knitting group, and they had come back with tangled balls of yarn and a discussion about the various misuses of knitting needles that were possible in conjunction with the human body, which they or may not have actually seen in action. Other times, well. Luther tries not to think about those. Suffice it to say, they were banned from quite a few places, and should be banned from more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"If it were a game, though, I would be winning." Five continues. "I'm very good at not getting caught once we start."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther narrows his eyes at Five.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Just like Uno."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't know what you're talking about, Number One." And Five is a terrible liar even when he's trying, and he definitely isn't trying even a little bit right now, voice going airy and light as his eyes crinkle minutely at the corners. "I won fair and square, and it isn't my fault if they don't have rules about manipulating time and space to one's will. A terrible oversight on their part, to be sure, but that's not on me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't think—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But back to the topic at hand, you still haven't answered my question yet. What unsavory thing were you doing with the table?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh, that? It's nothing, not a big deal." Five looks unimpressed at that, raising an eyebrow in a way that pairs well with the coffee and poorly with the knee-highs. Luther isn't very impressed with himself either.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And, if he thinks about it, Five might actually be helpful in looking for it. Not only does he seem to have a knack for locating things—Luther isn't sure if that's a side effect of his ability or just an unrelated talent—but he also probably won't look in the logbook. Even if he does, Five is the only one who genuinely likes Vanya's book—at this point, Vanya included—so there's a promising precedent in regards to his siblings' writing, which is better than Luther will get with anyone else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Besides, Five has seemed restless lately, popping around the house in quick flashes of blue and leaving chalk scribbles on obscure walls, only leaving the mansion when one of the siblings invites him out. Maybe Luther is projecting a little, but when he sees Five still in the uniform, he's reminded of moon rock samples and a distorted reflection, waiting for a day that has already gone by. And even though they're the only two living consistently in the manor, even though everyone has been working on spending more time together, they haven't done much one-on-one. This might be overly optimistic, but maybe asking Five for help now could start them talking more, at least. It's worth the risk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Actually, I'm looking for something." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Five sets his coffee down, leaning forward slightly with new interest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do tell."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's, ah, some of my old research."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is research in that logbook, technically. It's only about a page of results, surrounded by little doodles of birds and clouds, but it means Luther isn't really lying. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I was looking through it earlier, seeing if anything would be worth doing something with. Allison and Ben say that maybe I could send my findings somewhere, like to NASA or something, that maybe they'd be able to do something with it. Probably not, but it wouldn't hurt to try. I mean, I do have a lot of samples of moon rock, and that could be interesting—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Luther." Five cuts him off, at once fully a teen and an old man with his look of patience that is obviously not entirely natural. "What are you actually looking for?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh. Oh! It's one of my old logbooks. You know, a ripped soft cover, says logbook on the front, has my name on it. It's got some important findings in it, but it's pretty boring, so you probably won't want to—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Five's expression changes sharply at that, turning to something Luther has only rarely seen on him: surprise. In a blink, he's gone, and Luther hears him reappear on the table behind him. He turns to face Five once again—and Five really needs a few more talking-tos about when he should and should not teleport; the middle of a conversation is not one of the 'shoulds'—and finds him once again not using furniture like a normal person, instead opting to sit on the table. Five is peering up at him, studying him, and though Five has always been intense, even as a child, after he had come back his intensity had been honed to the finest point imaginable. Luther feels suddenly very exposed, which only worsens as Five tilts his head and narrows his eyes appraisingly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You lost your poetry?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly Luther feels as cold as he ever did on the moon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wh—I—no!" He lowers his voice to a whisper, so only Five will be able to hear him. "How did you know about that?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know everything." It's Five's rote response, the one he uses whenever one of them is being stupid, or when he needs more time to think. He doesn't seem to notice the little psychological moles that have begun to pop up again, stronger, with their own hammers. "Do you think Diego or Klaus might have taken it? It seems like something they might do."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How did you know that was my poetry book? I haven't shown it to anyone."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther is promptly ignored as Five's gaze wanders slightly, seemingly calculating the probabilities of the logbook's location with the same level of focus he had given to finding the best death to prevent the apocalypse. (Luther hopes it doesn't come back down to murder again, but he might be willing to make an exception if Diego had, in fact, found the logbook first. Vigilantism technically counts as criminal activity, right?)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"If they did take it, it might be in one of their rooms. Since I don't really want to visit Diego's sweaty broom closet or go digging through Klaus' trash, I'll leave those to you." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Did you take it? Did you—did you read it?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Grace might have cleaned it up if you left it somewhere. I can ask her if she's seen it, if you haven't already."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Luther can't—he needs to know. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Five. Did you read it?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Five finally turns back to look at Luther, exasperated, as though it doesn't matter, except that it does. It was all Luther had, for a while, for four years. For four years, he'd only had himself, and a logbook, and a whole selection of reinforced pencils that had still snapped on occasion. Really, it was all he'd had for longer than that, longer than he could really even admit to himself. It was everything, and it was himself, and it was who he was outside of what Dad said, and wanted, and ordered, and Luther has been trying so hard lately to figure everything else out, and to figure himself out, and he needs it. It matters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Five had avoided the question, and there's a certain kind of look in his eye, and a note in his voice, and Luther thinks maybe, somehow, it matters to him, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Luther, I've read your poetry. Is that what you wanted to hear?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh." Even though that was the answer he'd half-expected, he still hasn't been ready to hear it out loud. Luther doesn't know where Five would have even had the time to read it, since Luther keeps it on his person at almost all times, and he doesn't think Five rifles through people's pockets while they shower. Though, maybe he does, since, again, his social boundaries are still miscalibrated. "Did you take it from my room or something?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Relax, I didn't touch your room."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Then where did you get it?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do you really want to talk about this?" Five stands abruptly, pushing himself off the table with some force. His socked foot taps on the floor, impatient. "If you want me to actually find it for you, I have to go look for it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Five, where did you get it?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Five glares up at him for a moment before he catches himself, frowns. It's a fraught expression, as though he's debating with himself. Luther wants to take back the question, almost, except that there are very few things that elicit this sort of response from Five, and Luther's poetry should not be one of them. He waits, and Five finally crosses his arms and looks away briefly before looking back up at Luther.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"The apocalypse." His voice is harsh, challenging, daring Luther to say something about it. "It was on you when you died. I took it from your body."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther says that too much. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sometimes that's all he feels like he can say. Every day comes with some sort of realization, some new way that things aren't exactly the way he thought they were, and his whole world is knocked off balance. Vanya has powers. Ben is real. The world was going to end, until it didn't. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's things like: Five lived in the apocalypse. Five read his poetry. Five had found it on his dead body.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He should be able to say something, to find a way to make things better, but what is there to say to that? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm sorry, Five."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Five brushes it off, because he always does, waving his hand aimlessly as if to shoo the condolence away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't be. Your poetry was my favorite."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Your favorite what?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"My favorite poetry." Five squints at him. "Was that somehow not clear from what I said?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No—well, I mean, I guess it was, but that doesn't make any sense. It's not very good. I'm not a good poet."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, it's a good thing your opinion on your own writing isn't what's important here." Ah, the condescension returns. Luther had almost missed it for a second. "I've had it for longer than you, so I'm more qualified to say if it's good or not, and I say it is."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't think that's how it works."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm older than you, and I say it is."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't think that's how that works either."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Five raises an eyebrow again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do you really want to keep doing this, or should I go look now?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No, you can go look." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Five turns to leave, and Luther is struck by the sudden realization that this is the only other person in the world who has read his poetry. He'd seen the thoughts Luther hadn't told anyone else. He'd said it was good. And Five is a terrible liar, so Luther would have known if he was trying to spare his feelings, and Five wasn't the type to do that anyway, so he must have been telling the truth. And Luther—Luther has to know why.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Actually...did you really like it? Really?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Five sighs as he turns back around, long and deep, as though this was some sort of huge burden of a request. Maybe it is. It feels like it. He studies Luther, and some of his nervousness must be showing, because his expression softens. There's a moment, a long moment, where Five just looks, studying him once again, before he starts to speak.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You want to know what I really thought of it?" Five is quiet, his voice tinged with something not quite akin to nostalgia, a remembrance. It's vulnerable, a word Luther hardly ever applies to Five. Luther's throat feels tight, a slight tremor of nerves running along his stomach and up his spine, and he nods. Five regards him seriously, before he starts to speak once again, voice low. "It felt like someone understood what it was like. The loneliness, I mean. The time. The uncertainty. All of it. Or, at least, enough of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And you were—well, you thought you were protecting people, even if it didn't feel like it. Even if saving them just felt like living. Even if living was hard. You woke up and you did that, every day."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had been hard. Days on the moon had been long, monotonous. They had begun to blur into each other early on, turning into a large mass of hazy time, where repetition had turned into a hindrance and a help at the same time. He would forget what he had done that day, whether he had checked the battery or the oxygen levels, whether he had watered his plant, whether he had eaten. If he hadn't had them at all, he would have lost his mind, a true lunatic. Even on the best days it had been hard, and not every day could be the best day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he had made it work. He'd had to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Five is looking off into a middle distance now, no longer focused on Luther, and it feels like a loss and a form of safety all at once. Easier to remember things, to hear them. Five always had been an obsessive little genius, and he's had forty-five years to analyze the minutiae of his own existence, with nobody around to share the results. It reminds Luther of sending messages back to Earth, waiting and praying for a response he never really received, trapped all alone in his own life. He'd wanted to share his poetry once, to see what Dad would say, if he would like it, if he would understand, but Luther had always known deep down that even that wouldn't get any answer. He had known Dad wouldn't care. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther cares. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Living was—it really was difficult, a lot of the time. Most of the time. There were days when it all felt like too much, like I couldn't handle it anymore. There were—there were days—there were a lot of days. I would sit, and I would think of all the math I should have been working on, and I couldn't do it. I couldn't even remember why I was doing it. Then I would remember Vanya's book, and I would know what I was working for, what I was trying to fix the world for, what I was trying to save."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Five breaks his reverie for just a moment, glancing up at Luther quickly before looking back away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And I would remember your poetry, and I would know that I was strong enough to do it, or at least that I could choose to be. I would look at the moon and imagine you up there, working day after day on something that felt hopeless. Even though it was painful and you didn't want to, you did it, and you had enough left in you to write it down, to take it and make it your own. You did it because it was important, because there were people you loved, people who were worth saving. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And after everything, you made it back home. You made it back. That was—it felt like a sign, maybe."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Five's voice wavers slightly, and he sounds young, younger even than the thirteen year old Luther had known, who would never have let them see anything that could be perceived as weakness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And I know—I knew the world ended right after that, and I didn't know whether it ended because you had to leave, or because there was something else you just couldn't stop, but you kept trying to save the world until the very end.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And it wasn't for nothing. All that effort, it wasn't wasted. You got the eye. You kept your poetry. I needed both of those, in the beginning. They were a kind of hope, the knowledge that it wasn't all in vain. That I wasn't alone in it, in saving the world, in feeling the way I did, in any of it. When I read what you wrote, it almost felt like you were there with me, sometimes. I read it so much I have it memorized. I could recite any page of it to you right now, if you asked."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He meets Luther's gaze, holds it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"So yes, Luther, I really did like it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There really isn't anything Luther can say to that. Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>I think I understand</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He means all of them, but his voice isn't quite working, and those kinds of words always seem so thin that they just fizzle out in the air. But he means those words, means all of them and more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Five is looking at him, and he's waiting for Luther to say something. He'll leave if he doesn't, vanishing in a flash of blue as if he had never been there, as if the conversation had never happened. Luther needs to respond now, to answer, and the words are gone, and he doesn't know what he can say but he can't just leave it there, hanging in silence. He's not Dad. He cares.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther cares, so much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And suddenly it's easy to lean down, even if the the whole huge mass of him makes it difficult, and wrap Five in a tight hug. He makes it obvious what he's doing, of course—there had been enough incidents of too-quick movements and Five's startle reflex to remember that lesson, even if he wouldn't really hurt Luther—and it's telling that Five doesn't make any effort to avoid it. He's so small, as small as he must have been at the end of the world, and it hurts to think about. Luther had been so lonely on the moon, staring out into a stark and barren landscape. He doesn't think he could have handled it at thirteen. He's not sure he could handle it now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even here, back on Earth, with the whole family closer than they ever had been, with people in the house besides Mom and Dad and Pogo, Luther still feels alone sometimes, like it crept into his bones at some point and never left. He wonders if Five feels that way too, if he sometimes leans into the feeling because it's familiar and safe and has always been there, if he wakes up and forgets that it's not just him  anymore. Luther doesn't want Five to feel that way. Luther doesn't want to feel that way. They're not alone anymore. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther holds Five close, feeling the warmth and breath and heartbeat of another person, of his long-lost brother, and for the first time in a long time, it almost feels true.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, there's the sound of a door opening somewhere in the house, and the moment is broken. Luther straightens as Five pulls away slightly, and they both just look at each other for a moment. Luther smiles hesitantly, not quite sure what to do next.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'll go look for it," Five says, and almost before Luther can register it, he smiles back, soft and genuine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The expression, and the rest of him, disappear in a flash of blue, and Luther is left standing alone in the kitchen.</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>For a few days, Luther thinks that must be the end of it. The logbook doesn't turn up anywhere for either of them, and Luther had been too nervous to ask Diego or Klaus to look through their things. It just would have been weird, and they would have known something was off. He probably could have...not asked, but despite every valiant attempt, he's given up trying to figure out sneakiness. He told Five as much, who had just nodded and blinked away, message received. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, the logbook is lost, or one of his brothers has it. The thought doesn't bother him as much anymore. The image of Klaus and Diego laughing at him still pops into his head from time to time, but it's always swiftly and reflexively followed up by Five blinking in and smacking their heads together like a cartoon. There are still Uno cards, though, and more of them. Luther will just have to win the next game. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And since Luther had given up on the thought of finding the logbook, he really isn't expecting it when he finds a notebook on his bed as he readies himself for another sleepless night. It looks expensive, with a black leather cover with a moon and stars embossed into it, and it feels smooth under his hands as he picks it up. He runs a finger along the indentations, confused. He flips it open, hoping to maybe find a clue inside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first page is nearly blank, except for a few lines of tight, spiky handwriting that take his breath away for a moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>My Poems</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>By Luther Hargreeves</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>(Number One)</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's what he had written on the first page of the logbook, exactly as he had written it. The centering is even slightly off, the way had been on the original when he had still misjudged how big his handwriting had become. The only difference is the handwriting itself, which runs together between letters, yet still looks neater than Luther's. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It isn't just the first page. The whole book is filled with poems, the ones he had written over the course of those four years. The lines break where he had broken them, even when he had broken because he'd run out of room on the page and this handwriting had space left. Crossed-out words are done exactly as he had done them, strikethrough and scribbles switching throughout. Even the page of research is included, even the doodles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are only two major differences, handwriting aside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first is evident on the very first page. Beside the black used for Luther's own words, there's green ink marking up the page, sparing but obvious. There are stars next to certain passages, some words are underlined, and there are little arrows throughout the whole book with little notes beside them cramped into the margin. Things like: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I would reread this part when I was lonely. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Or</span>
  <em>
    <span> this one always made me feel better. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Or even just</span>
  <em>
    <span> reminder poem.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther feels a bit overwhelmed paging through them all, like there's an ocean yawing in his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The second thing is somehow even more surprising than the first: instead of the various poems he had written since coming back to Earth, there's one poem that Luther never wrote. There's a date on it, unlike with every other entry, since he had felt strange doing so since the moon didn't line up with any particular time zone. The day is for Dad's funeral. Luther hadn't written anything then, too caught up with everything that had happened, especially Five's arrival. That whole week before the apocalypse was due to arrive had been completely hectic, and he hadn't gotten the chance to sit down and write anything until much later. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Apparently, it hadn't gone that way the first time around, and he'd been able to write just one more thing in the time before the end.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Family is a constellation, </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>and we're all just stars</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>thrown together</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>through a certain point of view.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>All the lines connecting us</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>are imaginary and invisible,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>and they don't work if people</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>don't agree that they exist.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The stars are actually</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>millions of miles apart</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>and are getting farther</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>every day.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I wonder if the constellations</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>were different on the moon</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>than they were on Earth, </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>or if maybe I always saw them wrong</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>and never noticed.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I like to think that maybe,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>if I tried</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It cuts off there. That in itself is telling, the implied end of the world contained in one unfinished poem. The beginning of the end is hidden in the words too. A neat little story that Luther hadn't been trying to tell, hadn't meant to write but had created anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There's only one green note on this page, and it's the last one, the remaining pages blank for self-evident reasons. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It reads: </span>
  <em>
    <span>this is the only one I never agreed with. Even a star a million miles away still affects the one right here. That's how gravity works. That's how family works. We're still connected even if we're apart.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And maybe Luther doesn't think of family as immutably as Five does, who had clung to memories formed before the family had begun to break apart, who had fought the world and won to get them back, whose arrival had forced them together once again to become something better this time. Luther had seen the slow dissolve, the simmering and explosive resentment, the way the team had become its own enemy. He can't forget that, even if he had always meant to fix it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he doesn't agree with the poem this other self had written, either. Maybe it is just a choice, constellations, family. Maybe it is. But it can be worth choosing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther is willing to do the work of finding the lines, of figuring out the shape of this new constellation with everyone else. Maybe it will be hard, maybe it will be choosing the same thing again and again despite that, but they're strong enough to do it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And the moon rocks in the closet, the dust-covered uniforms, the distorted mirror—those are all lines that Dad had drawn, that Dad had chosen. Luther doesn't have to choose them. None of them do. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks down at the notebook again, the moon and stars on the cover. When he had come back to Earth, every time he had seen the moon he had remembered what it was like to be there. Now all he can imagine is Five, looking at the same moon, believing in him. He isn't alone, has never truly been as alone as he had feared. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luther picks up a pencil, and begins to write a new poem.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, this was what my other Umbrella Academy story was meant to be about! You may wonder why the tone is so different if you read it, and it's because this was all meant to be one story, where it started with Five finding the logbook, then a few chapters each prefaced with a poem that related to Five's experience in the apocalypse. The story you just read was supposed to be the first of two final chapters from Luther's perspective, or maybe the next in the series. They still work together, but you don't need context for either and the tones are wildly different, so I'm not tagging them together. </p>
<p>This was mostly inspired by posts I've seen around that show that Luther wrote poetry on the moon—a poem about comets, I believe—and the idea of Five finding that along with Vanya's book. So, hey, the Hargreeves have two writers now!</p>
<p>If you want to chat, I am also on tumblr at <a href="all-tua-much.tumblr.com">all-tua-much.tumblr.com</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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